


Uprising

by LavellanLove



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ableism, Blood Magic, Bloodletting, Canon Disabled Character, Character Death, DA:4, Female Protagonist, Gen, Grey Ace Protagonist, Guerilla Warfare, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape, Kidnapping, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus (Chapter 3), POC Protagonist, POV Multiple, PTSD, Please message me before reading if you have questions about the content!, Political Intrigue, Political upheaval, Racism, Revolution, Self-Harm, Serious Injuries, Sexism, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6933679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavellanLove/pseuds/LavellanLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It can be argued that an immortal would have to be distant, or eventually all it would know is loss. </p><p>What would our world look like to such a creature? What actions would they be capable of when everything except themselves is fleeting and therefore of little relevance to eternity? </p><p>If we as elvhen discover a path back to what we were, we must be sure that the path is wide enough for all. For the individual who stumbles into that journey, who endures when all else is dust, can only be alone."</p><p>- Keeper Ilan’ta, at Arlathvhen</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghi'mya

This was the end of the Inquisitor.

Avira could hear them behind her, shouting to each other in a harsh tongue. Their dracolisks huffed and spat, shrieking as the riders urged them on through the sinking mud with cracking whips and clanking sabatons. The hunters’ shadows loomed before her, darting through the trees in the flickering glow of their torches. They were getting too close.

Gnarled branches tore at her clothing and flesh as she desperately fled through the soggy brush. The Nevarran swamps were treacherous, but the slavers would have caught her days ago on the Imperial Highway. Here, she was at an advantage, so at least she had a chance of picking them off one by one. She was faster than their soldiers, not weighed down by heavy armor. Their beasts could not match her footwork through the twisting vines, and their scouts, skilled trackers as they were, hadn’t her experience in the wilds.

But it had been hours of pursuit now, and she was outnumbered. She could not hold on much longer, and they knew it. She could feel her heartbeat throbbing in her ears. Her throat was raw. Lungs burning. Mouth dry. Legs numb. But she could not relent. Not yet. _Keep moving, Avira,_ she begged herself. _Don’t give in._

She pulled the last remaining stamina potion from her belt, jerking the cork off roughly with her teeth and spitting it away. She forced it down between gasping breaths, hoping to gain enough headway to find a place to hide.

The bed of the swamp suddenly dropped off beneath her, and she found herself waist deep in grime. The stench of rotting corpses and sulfur coated her tongue. She choked back a gag as she tried to paddle forward. She wasn’t a particularly strong swimmer to begin with, and without her left forearm, it was futile.

She dove clumsily towards the far edge of the mire, her grasping hand, caked with muck, finally finding purchase with a sturdy vine. She pulled herself upwards with a strained yell, frustratedly trying to grip the vine with her right hand and the crook of her other elbow as her feet kept slipping down the soggy bank.

Upon finally reaching the top, she collapsed to the ground, exhausted and wheezing.

She looked up, smearing away the mud from her vision, only to see a second group of hunters closing in from the front.

Tears welled in her eyes. She had hoped to get closer to the Imperium border. But there was no escape, now. Time for a final stand.

She loosed her dagger from its sheath, crouching down to regain some mana; taking a few long breaths as they approached. Between the dozen slave hunters pursuing and those who’d head her off from the front, there would probably be about twenty in total. Her chances weren’t great, but she’d faced worse odds. She tried to ignore their vulgar taunts and threats as she drew runes in the earth around her. She would need to keep a clear head and conserve her energy if she had any hope of succeeding, let alone surviving the night.

She made eye contact with one of the archers. It must have looked menacing, because he panicked, his bow snapping as he prematurely loosed an arrow. _Dahn’direlan,_ she thought with a smile _._ She leaned to the side, avoiding the whistle of the arrow as she rose. She stilled her mind, gripped her dagger tighter, and focused her will on the foe in front of her. The warrior dismounted and began to charge, screaming as he torqued his axe back to deliver a crushing blow. She fade stepped out of his path, cleanly spinning around to hook his throat in the curve of her blade. The axe fell as he crumpled to the ground, blood spraying up in the air.

She stepped over his body as three more joined the fray: a rogue from the left, a mace-wielding warrior from the right, and a juggernaut with a shield from the center slowly making his way forward. She knew that trying to wield her disdain for them would only make her reckless, so she did her best to remain centered, focusing on her technique with cool detachment. In one fluid movement, she threw a bolt of fire to her left and her dagger to the right. The blade landed in the warrior’s leg. She charged at him, the screams of the immolating rogue behind her, the taste of ash and the smell of burning hair overwhelming the mossy swamp. She withdrew her dagger from the mace-bearer’s thigh, accepting the brunt of his blow to gain the opening to stab him in the heart.

She pulled her blood-stained blade out of his chest and raised it to the sky, calling down lightning on the metal-plated juggernaut. He braced himself on his shield as his body convulsed under the current. She sheathed her dagger in favor of the fallen warrior’s mace, building momentum as she charged towards him. His neck snapped as it hit his spine. He fell – a twitching mass of sizzling metal cradled in a shield. Looking down at him, she felt nothing. _Slavers deserved no better._ With their shots clear, the archers let forth a volley. But her barrier was still strong, and their arrows ricochéd away. As they frantically pulled more arrows from their quivers, Avira dropped the mace and strode towards them. With a practiced wave of her hand, a wall of flame sprang up between the archers and their quarry.

The hunting party had finally caught up, dracolisks still chomping at the bit. She turned to face them, flames on her back as she squared off against the new wave of foes. The winds thrummed with conviction as she conjured a field of disruption on top of them, bringing the charging cavalry to a halt. Slowly, one man dismounted and emerged from the pack, drawing a greatsword almost as tall as she was, a dragon carved into the hilt. He must have been a magekiller.

“This has gone on long enough,” he asserted. “Surrender peacefully or painfully. You will submit either way, _slave_.”

“I am _not_ a slave,” she said, fire swirling in her palm.

“Ah, but you will be.”

As the magekiller slashed forward, she instinctively cloaked herself in the Fade, re-materializing once the blade passed through her. She released the growing flame from her hand, but he mitigated it with his greatsword. She lured him backwards a few steps, trying to remember where she’d placed the fire mine. _Another step_. Her dagger was enough to deflect his blows, but only just. She put up her barrier. _One more step._ The glyph detonated, and they were engulfed in an inferno. Avira braced herself as the flames licked her barrier, her enemy thrown back with a violent thud.

But the disruption field had waned, and the rest of the hunting party had her surrounded. Avira spun on her heel, conjuring thunder in a ring above her head. Avira brought her hand to the earth, dragging lightning-touched fingertips through the mud around her. A wave of electricity rippled outward, arcing from foe to foe as it paralyzed all in its path. She burst forward, trying not to slip as she ran toward her target. The hunter’s eyes widened as she confronted him, snarling, and plunged her dagger into his chest. She kicked him back, whipping around to slit the next man’s throat. She used the shadows and trees as cover, picking off six more hunters, one by one. The kills felt sloppy and exhausting; a lot harder than it used to be. They must not have been accustomed to their victims putting up a fight.

A sharp jolt hit the back of her leg – one of the archers finally meeting their mark. She was brought to a limp, pain shooting up her back. She braced herself against a tree, gritting her teeth as she pulled out the arrow with a scream.

She started to heal the wound, but another arrow hit her in the side, dropping her to the ground.

_Elfroot. She needed elfroot._ Avira crawled through the mud, wincing; dragging herself sloshing forth. She plucked the plant up by the base chewing it roughly, and spewing the paste into her palm, slathering it over the wounds to stem the bleeding.

She cried out as a boot crushed down on her back, the tip of a blade resting on her neck. The magekiller.

“Get her up.”

One of the soldiers jerked her up to her feet roughly by the hair, as another bound her arms.

The magekiller delivered a swift punch in her gut. She spit blood in his face, and he wiped it away with a smile, grabbing her by the jaw.

“I will enjoy breaking you, filth.”

No title she had borne – _First, Herald, Inquisitor_ – would spare her. To these slave hunters, she was no one.

Just as she had planned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ELVHEN  
> Ghi'mya = The Hunt  
> dahn'direlan = idiot, moron, lit. "bee-puncher"


	2. Banageral'an

Avira lost track of the days she spent tossing around the back of the slave hunters’ rickety cart. The stench of vomit and filth baking into the wood left her delirious, and the gritty desert air made it difficult to conjure even the smallest shard of ice. But she had to try: she was feverish, and even though her leg was healing decently, the wound in her side was starting to fester.

Clenching her jaw, she expressed as much pus as she could from her swollen wound before pressing in the ice to flush it out. She hoped it’d start improving soon so she could heal herself; closing an infected wound would only make it worse. A more competent band of slavers would have thought to ensure that their quarry wasn’t liable to die before reaching the auction block.

Baiting black market slavers into smuggling her past the Tevinter border wasn’t a _good_ plan, but it was the only one she had. She was the most well-known elf in Southern Thedas, and she needed a way to leave her identity behind. A rather convincing decoy took up residence in the Frostbacks, about an hour’s ride from Skyhold. Though the bulk of the Inquisition’s forces had disbanded, a hand-selected few remained, dwelling in the hidden chambers under the hold.

All that was left was finding a way to enter Tevinter undetected. Briala had agreed to send an attaché of spies north through the Silent Plains, Lace’s team took the path west into the High Reaches, and Charter, Tessa, and Marius scouted east through the Hundred Pillars. Their crows all bore the same grim news: every feasible route into the Imperium was being watched. Solas’ network had grown vast, indeed.

So two weeks ago, Avira left her hart, speaking stone, and all her personal effects with the Chargers, departing Nevarra’s capital city on foot and alone.

She knew where Solas was heading. She knew what he sought. She knew the sort of people he intended to recruit. All she needed was to gain their trust, and then convince them to join her cause. She might not be able to infiltrate his organization on her own, but she _could_ infiltrate the slave trade. After all, nothing was more invisible in Tevinter than the people on whose backs it was built.

She could have just surrendered to the slavers, but putting up a fight seemed like it would be more convincing. Besides, if she ended up dying from something as ridiculous as an infected arrow wound, it would be satisfying to know that at least she’d taken fifteen of them with her. She still was not sure how they’d managed to recruit a magekiller into their ranks, but that had certainly complicated things. Her only regret was that she hadn’t been able to end him, too.

With her left arm, she was sure she could have. Creators, did she miss her arm. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers over the aching space. Granted, it hurt significantly less than it did when the mark was flaring up, but every task, big or small, was a challenge without her favored limb. She hoped it would get easier with time, but sometimes, selfishly, she almost wished this burden had fallen to another. And she wasn’t proud to admit it, but she couldn’t help but resent Solas now that she knew how much of her misfortune – her people’s misfortune – was entirely his doing.

And yet, she would do anything to save him from himself; to persuade him off his path of self-destruction. She might not survive the task, but she intended to use every breath she had left to ensure that the path to a better world was wide enough for all.

_He doesn’t have to do this….I can find another way…I…_

She gave in to the fever and fell back out of consciousness.

 

* * *

 

As the sun started to pierce through the slats of wood, she awoke to a throbbing in her side and the bustle of people around the cart. She heard the rehearsed calls of merchants, the clomping of hooves on cobblestone, the giggles and pattering of children, the shouts of a heated argument, and the clank of blacksmiths’ hammers echoing down the alleyways.

Minrathous.

She pressed her cheek to the side of the cart, enjoying the breeze against her skin. The air smelled of brine and smoke mingled with incense and sweat. _They must be nearing the Nocen Sea_. The cawing gulls and the crashing water did little to drown out the dragging chains and the callous yell of the auctioneer. Slaves. _Actual_ slaves. The pain of it wrenched in her gut, the reality hitting harder than she expected now that she was here. At least Dorian would be here too, and it would all be over soon.

The cart came to a stop. The light was blinding when they opened the hatch. She could barely see the guard as he grabbed her by the ankle, dragging her from the cart. He quickly paid off an official, who gave him a gold-toothed smile after counting his coins, and gestured him towards a windowless stone building behind the auction block.

They descended the stairs to the building’s narrow undercroft. There were at least three dozen soon-to-be slaves crammed in. The attendants cut away her clothes, tossing them into the fire. They herded her into a cage with the others, as though they were no more than animals. For Dorian to have equated life in the Alienages to this... _no,_ she decided. _He must not have known_. _There was no way he could have known._ A hatch above them opened, and water came crashing in on top of them. Avira knocked heads with the dark-skinned human next to her as they tripped over each other, trying not to breathe in water as they rushed to get clean. She took extra care to thoroughly clean her wound. Painful, but a relief nonetheless. Still dripping wet, the attendants flung sacks of perfumed powder on them before prodding them out of the cage for inspection and dressing.

First, they plucked out a young boy no older than twelve. A man in robes slit the child’s palm with a lancet, bottled his blood as he whimpered, then cast a spell that made the phial glow red. _A phylactery, like the ones in the circles to the south._

The groomers wrapped his hand, inspected him, and clothed him in a bright blue tunic. It did a good job masking the boy’s scrawny arms and pronounced ribs, but did nothing to conceal the fear in his wide, dark eyes. They hung a wooden placard around his neck, and painted on a number. Next, the human beside her. She was healthier looking than many of the others, so for her, they picked a sleeveless shift that showed off her strong arms.

One by one they took the rest, a white-haired elf, a pregnant shem, a massive qunari, until finally it was Avira’s turn. The other inspections seemed to go by quickly, but time might as well have stood still as she stood bared before the groomers. The mage slit her palm. She was acutely aware of all the groomers’ eyes, fixated on her missing arm. The Qunari attendant turned to fetch a rusty forearm with a leather strap at the back, handing it to the man in robes.

“No, please!” she protested at the violation, earning her a hard slap across the face. Another attendant grabbed her shoulders as they forced her into the prosthetic. She winced with discomfort as the metal dug into her skin, scraping its way further up her arm. They tied the strap so tight it made the rest of her arm tingle. She met the gaze of the Qunari attendant, who answered with wordless apology, gently lifting the metal limb through the sleeve of a blouse. It was the closest thing to a kindness she’d been offered. The groomers tugged long, leather gloves over both hands to cover her “deformity”. After all, they were all merchandise here, and she was damaged. She was dressed in an airy skirt, a corseted belt around her waist, and a wooden placard over her neck.

They painted the mark of the mage, then paused for instruction.

The robed man swirled her phial. He muttered something in Tevene to his associate, who called to another from across the room. He swirled it again, showing the others. She worried that somehow she’d been discovered. He snapped his fingers, and the Qunari brought her over to them.

“You are a mage, girl. Are you trained?”

She paused before replying to mentally rehearse the Tevene dialect of the slave hunter who drove her cart. “I– yes, of course, _domine_.”

“Good. Athkaar, fetch her some embrium, then put her in the reserves.”

The mage picked up a brush, studying her phial a third time, then drawing a number on her placard: 998.

_They must have made some mistake_. Most everyone else’s numbers were in the twenties or thirties. Whether this was in her favor or not was yet to be seen.

In her periphery, she saw the mass of slaves being ushered onto the stage. She sipped the hot drink, her mana rushing back. It was only tea, but she savored any bit of fullness she could get.

“Ready to go?” Athkaar asked. She nodded, though no amount of tea would have ever made her feel truly ready for something like this.

He brought her arms in front of her, clapping her wrist and its metal impostor into shackles. He pressed her forward by the small of her back, leading her into a small room just past the wing of the stage.

Even though most of the slaves were currently being auctioned off, a few were being held here. _This must be the reserves_ , she thought. Dorian had explained that sometimes, the most prized slaves were held in the back and saved for the end of the auction. As there would be less buyers, the plan was to demonstrate her ability through a difficult capture so she would end up here. She looked around at the few who remained. Among them, the young boy, the dark-skinned woman, and a lanky, freckled teenager with a brand on their forehead. They had the same icon as Avira painted on their placard, so they must have been a mage, too.

Once Athkaar left, Avira turned towards them, gesturing at their forehead, and asked, “Did they make you Tranquil?”

They replied in broken Common with a dry laugh, “No. This is mark of a runaway slave. Hard to sell someone like me. That’s why I am on black market.”

“Ah, I see,” she replied with a gentle sigh. “I’m Milahni.” She wasn’t quite sure why she had chosen to use her mother’s name.

Their jaw clenched and they stared back blankly, as if they did not know how to respond.

The human woman responded snidely from across the room, “Clearly this is your first day as a _servanis_!” eliciting a hearty laugh from the others. Avira looked down sheepishly, face flushing.

The woman softened a bit, “A word of advice, Milahni: protect your name. Do not let them take it from you.”

Everyone sat in relative silence after that. The boy drew shapes in the dirt with his feet, and the teen fidgeted with their blouse. Avira could barely sit still. She tried to stretch her arm, heel tapping compulsively. Especially with the fever, it felt like a bad dream. She couldn’t wait for Dorian to get her out of here.

 

* * *

 

After about an hour, the attendants came back, escorting them by their chains onto a circular platform. The mage tapped his staff and the platform rose up, lifting them from the undercroft onto the auction block.

Many of the buyers had already started clearing out, but there was still a sizeable crowd in the pavilion. She kept scanning the sea of faces, hoping to find Dorian. Once he won the auction, she could get to his Minrathous estate, take this awful prosthetic off, and rest at last before rejoining her friends in Qarinus.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the clap of the gavel.

The auctioneer started his charismatic banter. The Tevene rolled off his tongue at an incomprehensible speed. She caught something about the reserves, and something about 500 gold. She assumed this was a starting bid.

As the first few slaves were auctioned off, Avira kept searching for Dorian’s face. She started to panic: _what if he isn’t here? What if I am in the wrong place?_

The bidding on the reserves was about halfway done. Even more buyers started clearing out, as the slaves seemed to be getting more expensive as they went. But many of those who remained had entire entourages of slaves and bodyguards in tow. The degree of ostentation in Tevinter made Val Royeaux feel downright modest.

_There!_

She spotted him. Long, undercut hair, angular pauldrons, tailored robes finished off with a sash and a billowing cape: he really did dress the part of magister well. Avira flashed him a smile, overcome with relief, but Dorian looked mortified to see her like this. He swallowed and glanced away, tucking an errant strand of hair behind his ear. An elaborately coiffed blonde stepped up behind the magister and whispered in his ear. He gripped his staff more firmly, stood up straighter, and assumed a stoic expression.

There was a brief bidding war for the human woman. She ended up fetching 10,000 gold. The little boy looked scared as he walked forward for his turn. He went uncontested at 5,000. The freckled mage went for 15,000, alongside the trade of a few other slaves between bidders.

Finally, it was Avira’s turn. She shakily took a step forward as the auctioneer announced her.

“Next we have a prized former slave of Divine Urian himself, whom he reluctantly sold at the insistence of his envious wife.” The audience laughed. She wondered if they all knew the story was completely fabricated.

The auctioneer read off her placard.

“ _Potentia…_ ” his polished smile faded. He turned and checked with the attendant. They shrugged.

“ _Potentia..._ _octingenti nonaginta novem_.”

The crowd fell to a hush, exchanging glances and murmuring to one another. Dorian arched an eyebrow and frowned. He was concerned. She still did not know what it meant.

Before the auctioneer even announced the start of the bidding, a voice rose from the back of the pavilion.

“Fifty-thousand.”

Dorian raised his staff to counter. “One hundred.”

“One twenty-five.”

“Two-hundred thousand.”

The audience burst into applause, apparently impressed by the boldness of his bid.

“Going once, going twice…”

“ _Provocatio_ ,” the voice boomed.

The crowd parted as a cloaked man emerged from the back of the pavilion. He lifted his hood, his sharp features casting harsh shadows across his leathery face. “Magister Pavus, is it?”

“Naturally! And you are?”

The blonde stepped between the two men. “Dorian, may I have the pleasure of introducing Magister Theocritus of Marnus Pell.

“Ah, thank you Maevaris. Charmed! Do yourself a favor, _laetan,_ and stand down _.”_

Theocritus sighed. “Insolence. Disappointing. If you fancy yourself worthy of a _servanis_ of this caliber, prove it. Let us see what actual skill your prized pedigree has earned you.”

The crowd formed a ring, vultures awaiting a feast of carrion. The magisters squared off, staves thrumming to life.

_A duel?_ Avira thought, stomach knotting. _But, he won the auction! Dorian didn’t say anything about a possibility of a duel. What was going on?_

Theocritus’ staff was unlike any Avira had seen. A hollow, twisting shaft of obsidian, intricately crafted to look like dragonscales.

She wondered how he managed not to cut his hands wielding it, then realized that was likely the intent. Considering the look on his slaves’ faces, she was pretty sure his wasn't the only blood that staff had taken in.

***

Theocritus made the first move: spikes of ice hurling towards Dorian.

He brought his staff to a rapid spin to deflect the attack, countering with a salvo of targeted fiery blasts.

Theocritus stumbled back, disoriented. Dorian took the advantage, summoning forth spirits of fear and directing them into his target. Theocritus doubled over in horror, eyes squeezed shut, his body racked with silent cries.

He molded his terror into rage, breaking the spirits’ hold in a violent burst of energy.

Dorian sprinted away, keeping one step ahead of the blast. He turned sharply and thrust his staff outward with a forceful slash, warping the veil in front of him into a shimmering barrier. The spell broke against it like a crashing wave, thrumming as it dissipated into the air.

Dorian glided across the ring with elegant skill and lethality, his relentless barrage of magic forcing Theocritus back into a corner. Avira was glad to see that his airy, dramatic technique was such an effective misdirect against Theocritus’ crude force. Dorian flared his staff as he cast, pulling ambient energy together into a glimmering orb of light. With a flick of his wrist the orb began to spin, picking up speed until it was unleashed. Theocritus howled as the misdirection hex hit him between the eyes, flashes of searing light blinding him.

Theocritus was outmatched. As frantically as he was casting, he could not hit the younger magister – his errant spells went flying out into the crowd, crumbling walls of nearby buildings and freezing unwary spectators. His palms were growing raw and bloodied from his barbed staff, but not a single drop of blood hit the ground.

Through the silvery light of his twirling staff, Avira caught a glimpse of Dorian’s face: he was actually _laughing_ at the man, taunting him as he twisted the elements against the older mage. She couldn’t help but smile. She had missed her friend.

To finish him off, Dorian incanted a powerful entropy spell. An amber torrent came whirling down atop Theocritus. His eyes widened, and he fell to the ground, completely incapacitated.

***

As was custom for the victor, Magister Pavus approached his challenger, holding the blade of his staff to Theocritus’ throat before turning to face the auctioneer. Avira could finally breathe again.

The auctioneer called out to them from the podium.

“Magister Theocritus, do you yield?”

Catching Dorian off-guard, the laetan slashed him in the back of his calf with his staff, then clambered to his feet, frothing with hate.

“No!” he shrieked, “this is not over!”

Dark, primal magic poured from end of his staff into the ground before him. Cobblestones came flying up into the air, sending Dorian hurdling back with a violent thud.

Wisps wailed in what sounded like torturous pain as they were siphoned into his staff from the Fade around them. The staff began to hum, crimson light seeping out from beneath the scales.

One of the slaves behind Theocritus passed out. The others tried to hold her upright to keep up an appearance of propriety, but her head was hanging limp, dark, silvery hair covering her eyes.

Dorian screamed in agony as he fell to the ground, writhing and weeping as he clawed at his boiling veins. Blood started dripping from the corner of his mouth, as he begged anything that could hear to make it stop.

Avira fought the impulse to cry out as Theocritus moved in for the kill.

Maevaris, with impressive composure, called out from the side of the ring: “Magister Pavus yields! Stand down.”

Theocritus disregarded her.

“I said, stand down!”

He brought back his staff to deliver a fatal strike, but Maevaris instinctively threw a wall of ice between them, rushing to Dorian’s side.

“Interesting,” Theocritus goaded, as if he had been winning all along, “it would seem lineage isn’t everything, _altus_.”

The auctioneer tried to regain control of the situation, pulling out Avira’s phylactery and holding it up. “Magister Theocritus has won the _provocatio_!” he interjected. “The _servanis_ is yours.” The gavel clapped against the stone podium.

Avira was overcome with dread. She desperately tried to make out Dorian’s visage through the ice wall. Even from a distance, she could feel Maevaris trying to heal. Hopefully that meant he still lived. It all happened in a matter of moments, but the assault kept replaying in her mind. She had never seen such horrible magic. And now, she belonged to its caster.

She felt a firm tug on her shackles – they were taking her away. But she couldn’t leave. She had to see that her lethallin was alive. “Dorian!” she screamed, more worried about him than her cover, “DORIAN!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TEVENE  
> Domine = sir, lord  
> Potentia = short for sanguinem potentia, blood potential, a unit of measure in blood magic rituals  
> Provocatio = a magical duel or challenge  
> Servanis = a Tevinter slave
> 
> ELVHEN  
> Banageral'an = the black market  
> Lethallin = a very close friend


	3. Lin’ladarelan

“Dorian? Can you hear me?”

He tried to focus on the blur of tan speaking to him, but couldn’t quite process what was happening. Each throb of his straining heart sent another wave of blood boiling through his veins. The heat under his skin was unbearable; it took all his willpower to fight the overwhelming impulse to claw his own flesh away from his body.

“Hold him down,” the man’s voice ordered.

More hands. The heat was stifling as he struggled against the too-firm grip. At the edge of his vision, he caught the glimmer of a blade. With a sharp slice to his bicep, relief poured from his arm and the pressure in his arteries abated. The sudden loss of blood sent him reeling, and he struggled to keep from passing out.

“Stay with me, Dorian.”

Droplets of blood rose from the the floor, glowing as they congealed in the air. Tendrils of frost enveloped the room, twining around the droplets in a flurry. He bristled as the gravelly tone of an archaic spell reverberate through his bones. His head flopped back, limp as his body left the table, suspended amid the blood and ice.

Cursed blood seemed to sing in the space around him as the spell developed. The crimson began to soften into a cool white light as the blood was purified.

With an icy rush, it came streaming back into his body through the wound in his calf and arm. He gasped for breath, feeling somehow like he was drowning. As his body sank back into the table, he shuddered a sigh of relief. It was gone, the burning was gone, and the curse had finally abated. He was so cold and tired, that when a wool blanket fell on top of him, all he could manage to do was close his eyes.

 

* * *

 

When he blinked his way into consciousness, he was back in his bed. In Qarinus. Dorian ran his fingers across the cool, silk sheets, comforted by the sight of the familiar grooves in the plaster on the ceiling, the gentle oceanic breeze billowed through the gossamer curtains. This Magister business required far too much travel, and it was good to be home.

_But, what exactly had happened?_ His memory was failing him, and it was surreal enough that he might have dismissed it as a bad dream if not for the tenderness of the new skin that had formed over his wounds.

_His calf,_ his heart sunk. _The provocatio. Avira._ He tried to stand and fetch someone, but his legs gave way. He caught hold of the one of the bedposts before easing himself down to sit on the edge.

Maevaris, bless her, must have been waiting outside. As soon as she heard the commotion, she was there, leaning against the doorframe.

“It’s about time you decided to rejoin us, Dorian!” Mae teased. “I was beginning to worry I’d have to keep all of our fledgling Lucerni alive on my own.”

“Nonsense. You give me too little credit, dear woman.” Dorian said, doing his best to reassure her. She had enough to worry about without him adding to her troubles.

“He’s up,” she called down the hall, before leaving the room.

The man from before walked into the room, lips curling up into a smile.

“Glad to see you’re finally awake, old friend.”

Shaded cheekbones, a streak of silver starting to form at his temples, skin tan like fine whiskey, those daring eyes. It _couldn’t_ be.

“...Rilienus?”

“ _Magister_ Pavus,” he teased, warmly resting his hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “Maker, _that’s_ a title I never thought I’d be addressing you by.”

“How are you here? The last time I saw you, you were on trial for abuse of magic! They were planning to make you –”

“–tranquil, yes.” He sat beside Dorian at the foot of the bed. “That was, of course, before our dear Archon found himself afflicted by a most curious poison. Just one drop can stop the heart in a matter of hours.”

With a knowing grin, he added, “I’ve no idea how _that_ happened of course, but fortuitously, I _happened_ to be imprisoned only a block away. He had, shall we say, _a change of heart,_ suddenly reluctant to dispose of the most talented _medimagus_ in Thedas. And, in exchange for saving his life, I was granted amnesty to practice my craft. So you know, these things sort themselves out.”

Dorian couldn’t help but laugh, _he hadn’t changed at all._ If anyone could find a way out of a worse-than-death sentence, it was Rilienus, and if anyone would devise a plan as reckless as poisoning the Archon, that was Rilienus, too.

“Come,” Rilienus instructed, standing, “I’ll help you downstairs. Your friends will be relieved to see that you’re well, but first–”

With a snap of his fingers, Comfort appeared, an azure wisp – they had chosen the form of an elderly servant from Dorian’s childhood.

“Spirit, tell the kitchen staff to set the table in the banquet hall. Magister Pavus will be joining his companions for dinner.”

“Yes, my lord.” they acknowledged, drifting closer to Dorian, face furrowed in concentration.

“You are thirsty. Ice water and lemon, by the empty chair in the parlor?”

“Thank you, Comfort,” Dorian replied. “That sounds lovely.”

The spirit beamed, contented with their work, and evaporated in a puff of light.

Rilienus extended a hand to Dorian, helping him to his feet.

As they descended the stairs, it was clear that the Chargers had already arrived.

The sounds of raucous laughter echoed down the polished, marble halls. Their cheer only made it that much harder to tell them what he had to.

Their journey must have been wearisome – the parlor was littered with mugs of ale, knapsacks, and stripped away pieces of armor. Bull was sprawled out on the chaise, while Dalish was snuggled in Skinner’s lap. Rocky was fast asleep, and Stitches and Grim had somehow found a way to turn backgammon into a drinking game. Krem stood in the middle of them all, regaling Harding and Dagna with tales from their latest exploit: searching for a way to prevent Solas from uncovering their plans through Avira’s dreams.

At Dorian’s advisement, Avira had sent the Chargers to the ruins of Adralla’s abandoned estate in Vyrantium. If the letters he found in the Minrathous Circle archives were to be believed, and provided he decoded her cipher correctly, it seemed that Adralla was forced to leave much of her work behind when she fled the Ferelden Circle with the Litany. Dorian suspected that pieces of her research into defense against dream walkers might still be there.

“Dorian!” Bull exclaimed, rushing to his feet and enveloping him in a hug, “what took you so long?”

“Oh, you know, us Magisters need our beauty sleep.”

Krem teased, “That would be funnier if you weren’t a tiny bit serious.”

“Ah Krem, it’s good to see you too.” Dorian said with a halfhearted smile, pulling him into the hug.

He greeted the rest of the group, taking a seat in the armchair where Comfort had placed the lemon-water. He still could not figure out how to tell them about Avira, so like a bloody coward, he allowed them to continue while he tried to figure a way out of what had happened.

“Sorry to interrupt, Krem, I believe you were in the middle of a story?” he asked, crossing his legs and taking a sip of water.

“Oh, right,” Krem said. “To keep anyone from getting suspicious, the Chief, Skinner, and Dalish acted like they were my _servani_. Lace, you should have _seen_ the outfit I picked out for Bull!”

“Krem may have let the ‘master’ act go to his head a little bit,” Bull laughed. “Didn’t mind the nipple clamps, though.”

Scout Harding almost snorted her ale up her nose. “I can’t believe I missed that! Why do _you_ guys always get the entertaining assignments?”

“It’s not that we _get_ entertaining assignments, but that they get more entertaining when we’re _involved_!” Krem joked. “Anyway, after Rocky blasted open the entrance, shambling corpses came pouring out. We must have cut down three dozen of them before we reached the research wing.”

“We figure her servants must have been trapped inside when the Vints who were after her attacked the estate. Poor bastards,” Bull interjected, shaking his head gently.

“So while we were finishing the corpses off, Dalish figured out how to dispel the wards.” Skinner said.

Dalish conspicuously cleared her throat.

“With her _bow,_ " Skinner clarified.

Dalish leaned back in her lap, planting a soft kiss on her cheek.

“Wait,” Dagna said, teetering at the edge of her seat, “Adralla’s estate has been abandoned for centuries. There were still safeguards in place? That’s incredible!”

“The entire wing looked completely untouched,” explained Krem. “It’s kind of surprising no one thought to check the ruins before.”

“Not many could have cracked that cipher Dorian did,” Mae pointed out. “I found the letters in the Circle archives while helping Dorian research Corypheus’ true identity. I recognized Adralla’s seal; so I tried to figure it out.” She chuckled. “I must have spent weeks trying to decipher the damnable letters before I finally gave up!”

“I was just glad the instructions you sent us worked, Dorian,” Dalish said. “Considering the number of charred skeletons outside the chamber. I doubt we were the first to try, so thanks for not getting me burnt to a crisp.”

“That’s usually what I strive for,” he replied, winking at Dalish while sipping his drink.

“But then came the _real_ task,” Krem said, “figuring out what stuff might actually help Avira.”

Bull nodded. “Notes, tomes, artifacts, vials; all _kinds_ of weird mage shit. We weren’t really sure what you were looking for, so we just cleared the place out. We’ve got a caravan full of potentially helpful, potentially worthless stuff for you all to go through.”

He paused, looking around the room, “which reminds me, where is Avira? I have the personal effects she gave me for safekeeping when we split up in Nevarra. Plus, she won’t _believe_ how much gold the Antiquarian paid us for her hand!” he added, grinning.

“I–” the words caught in his throat. “She’s not here, Bull.”

Bull’s smile faded quickly. “What do you mean? Where is she?”

“I lost her.”

The room fell silent.

“She was there, at the black market. Everything was going according to plan, but I should have realized that residual magic from the mark might have affected her blood. Her _potentia_ was unprecedented, attracting the attention of another bidder– a man called Theocritus.”

“What was her _potentia_?” Rilienus asked.

“Just shy of a thousand.”

“That shouldn’t be possible,” Rilienus asserted, his eyes flitting around as if making mental calculations. “That is more than enough for _fifty_ mages, powerful ones at that. It’s a miracle she’s alive.”

“A story for another time.” Dorian snapped. “Anyhow, after outbidding this Theocritus, he challenged me to a duel. I almost won; I _should_ have won, but I didn’t.”

Maevaris tried to console him. “It wasn’t your fault, Dorian, in a fair fight –”

“A fair fight.” He laughed bitterly. “Since when have we had the luxury of fighting fair, Mae?”

“Cynicism doesn’t look good on you, dear,” she chided. “You could not have foreseen him stabbing you from behind and using your own blood to fuel a curse.”

“A particularly strong curse,” added Rilienus. “I’ve dealt with the aftermath of many a _provocatio_ , but I have seen few as nasty. I’m glad Maevaris brought you to me; much longer, and you would have been dead.”

“As am I,” Dorian replied dispassionately, regret hanging on his words. He could still see Avira standing on the block, legs trembling. A fitting punishment for his failure that the last thing he could remember was her screaming as they dragged her away.

“I was surprised at how powerful Theocritus has become,” Maevaris admitted, pouring herself a glass of wine. “He is a Laetan – a nobody. The last time I saw him, he was nothing but a grasping parasite, drawn to power like a moth to flame.”

“Do you know where he’ll take her?” asked Lace.

“Unless it’s to his manor in Marnus Pell, no,” she replied.

“But it wouldn’t be difficult to find out.” Rilienus looked over to Bull. “You said you have her gear?”

He nodded.

“If there’s any of her blood on it, I can try to perform a tracking spell. But since it’ll be dry, it would require a great amount of lyrium, I’m afraid.”

“The lyrium won’t be a problem,” Maevaris declared with a casual wave of her hand. Considering the shortage, she was probably the _only_ person in Tevinter who could say that.

_It must be nice to have the Ambassadoria in your pocket_ , Dorian thought.

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” Bull growled, pounding his fist on the table. “Let’s get her back! I’ll break this asshole in half if I have to.”

“No!” Maevaris snapped. “We can’t just barge in and steal Theocritus’ property. Dorian lost a _provocatio_ with another magister, quite publicly. If the _servanis_ for which they dueled went missing, he would be implicated, and we cannot afford a political scandal, even for a friend.”

Dorian could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “Are you actually suggesting we leave her there?” he spit, magic crackling along his fingertips. “She is a fucking _slave,_ Mae. My friend is a slave, and you’re telling me to let her rot!”

“Of course not,” she said, “but we cannot be hasty. We must find a way to rescue her that will not be traced to you. You have enough of a mark on your head, already, Dorian.”

She silenced his protests with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Until then, if half the stories I’ve heard about this Avira are true, trust that she is more than capable of taking care of herself.”

He pressed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, letting it out with a sigh. “You’re right," he finally grumbled. He hated to admit it, but a Magister going to extreme lengths for a single slave would raise questions that might expose her identity. It was too risky, for both of them.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” he cursed, wearily rubbing the bridge of his nose as he slumped back in his chair.

Comfort appeared, their form fraying at the edges with agitation. “Worrying will not help. Come, Master Pavus and Master Pavus’ friends, dinner is about to be served. Eat, drink, rest. You can help better with clear minds.”

They exchanged hesitant glances. Rocky, breaking the silence, finally said, “Well, they’re not wrong.” Eagerly he stood and followed the spirit into the dining hall.

 

* * *

 

Dorian could barely touch his dinner, and just kept absentmindedly pushing his food around the plate with his fork. It didn’t escape Bull’s notice. He squeezed his thigh under the table, gently gesturing at his plate with his head.

It was nice to have the company, at least. The grand hall felt uncomfortably large and cold, but it wasn’t so bad with everything from the marble columns to the gold crown moulding polished to a sparkle. And Comfort had been right; the food did lift everyone’s spirits.

The Chargers, by contrast, seemed grateful just to be eating a real meal. A few drinks later, they were trying to outdo each other with their magister impressions. Poor Comfort, unable to grasp the ruse, rushed to accommodate their outlandish requests. Krem watched with a frown, finishing the last of his wine.

“I suppose Dagna and I will have our hands full sifting through Adralla’s research,” Dorian told no one in particular.

“Research? I’m sure she will hate that,” Lace teased, as Dagna flashed them both a grin.

“And I should still try to locate Avira,” Rilienus suggested. “Perhaps there’s a way to send her a message, let her know we haven’t abandoned her.”

“I wish we could stay and help,” Bull added, “but Avira’s orders were clear. We need to start making our way back to Skyhold. After dinner, we’ll unload the caravan, but we ride out at dawn.”

“I just wrote an old friend of mine in Kirkwall that should be able to help. Don’t worry, Bull, we’ll get her back,” Maevaris assured.

 

* * *

  
Morning came around much sooner than Dorian hoped. Demons had a way of making sleep restless, especially when they had so much material to work with.

> _“She’s dead,”_ Despair Bull had told him. _“You got her killed."_
> 
> _“I should have let you die, like you left her to die,_ ” Rage Rilienus hissed.
> 
> Desire came to him undisguised. _“You could do it, you know. I could show you your potential, the power in your blood. One prick of your finger, and you could have won. She would be here right now.”_

He rubbed his bleary eyes, attempting to banish them all from his mind. He donned a knee-length, silk housecoat, buttoning it to the neck before heading downstairs.

With the caravan already packed, the Chargers were saying their goodbyes and preparing to leave.

Maevaris, he noticed, was absent.

He made the rounds, thanking each of them and wishing them safe travels. In a way, he envied their return to Skyhold.

“Alright Chargers! Move out,” Bull yelled, urging them towards the door. “Krem? Come on."

Krem was staring at the floor, shifting his weight back and forth, fingers nervously tapping the sides of his legs. “I’m not coming with you, Chief.”

Bull stopped in his tracks. “What?”

“I have... unfinished business in Tevinter. Besides, it sounds like they’ll need all the help they can get.”

The Chargers were blindsided, Bull rubbing his head. He looked around at the company before fixing his eye on Krem, taking him by the shoulders.

“Take care of yourself,” he ordered, his voice wavering slightly.

Krem melted into the hug, burying his face in Bull’s chest, sniffling out a muffled, “you too.”

“Listen,” Bull cautioned sternly, turning to Dorian, “Solas was not wrong. The Qunari are likely testing the strength of your borders as we speak. There is a good chance a full-scale invasion is coming, especially once they learn Fen’Harel is here. You need to be ready.”  

“Thanks for the warning,” Dorian replied, managing a half-smile.

Bull moved in closer, smelling of tarragon and oak, his breath still laced with last night’s wine. In a softer tone, he murmured, “And, stay alive, will you?” He paused to run his fingers down Dorian’s jawline, “I can’t just keep rushing out here for every little assassination attempt.”

“I will do my best. _Vitae benefaria_ , Bull.” Dorian smiled, wrapping his arms around Bull’s neck, wishing he wasn’t leaving so soon. His kiss felt somber somehow, and more like a goodbye than it had in the past. Bull let out a hum, studying Dorian’s face before planting one more kiss on his forehead.

 

* * *

 

The Chargers were serious about salvaging everything they could carry from Adralla’s laboratory. Dorian, Dagna, and Rilienus had been holed up in the library all day poring over artifacts, and felt no closer than when they started.

Rilienus was scraping dried blood off Avira’s armor into a flask while Dagna examined a rune under a looking glass. Dorian re-read Adralla’s letters, desperately hoping to find something he might have overlooked.

One of his servants suddenly burst into the library, sweat dripping from his reddened face. “My lord! Thank the Maker you’re here! A host of templars is surrounding the estate!”  

Rilienus dropped his blade, eyes widening. Clearly his time in their custody left an impression.

“Stay out of sight!” Dorian cautioned before heading out to greet them.

“Gentlemen!” Dorian said cordially, “how can I help you?”

“Magister Pavus, His Holiness, Divine Urian had called an emergency meeting of the Magisterium.”

This was unprecedented; the Divine lacked the authority to convene the Magisters. They were not at war, and if the Qunari were invading, he would have seen their dreadnaughts from his terrace. Whatever the case, it was likely why Mae had already taken her leave.

“Why, what’s happening?”

“I do not know, my lord, but I fear there’s no time to waste. We are under direct orders to escort you to the docks.”

He turned to gather his things, but they raised their spears, effectively blocking his path back to the estate.

“Immediately, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TEVENE  
> Ambassadoria = the political voice of dwarven interests in Tevinter  
> Kaffas = shit  
> Medimagus = medical practitioners who use forbidden blood magic to perform surgery  
> Potentia = short for sanguinem potentia, blood potential, a unit of measure in blood magic rituals  
> Provocatio = a magical duel or challenge  
> Servanis = a tevinter slave  
> Vitae benefaria = a respectful goodbye
> 
> ELVHEN  
> Lin’Ladarelan = the medimagus, lit. “one who heals with blood”


	4. Dhru'an

Minrathous was a city of bones.

There was no other way Avira could describe it. The sandstone spires were brittle and weather-worn, greenery overtook the vacant space between the crooked flagstones, and the city's walls crumbled into the sea. Perhaps the magisters’ ostentation was their way of trying to convince themselves that their city, once the crowning jewel of an empire, was not rotting out from its core.

From their opulent palaces, it must have been easy to delude themselves. But down here, beneath their lavish parties and marble floors, beneath the slaves toiling in their cellars, the reality was inescapable. Avira ran her fingers along the damp stone wall, pulling forth its memories. The rock was laden with toil and suffering and dread. Places such as this were better left forgotten.

By the light of a single torch, Theocritus’ guards led Avira and a dozen other slaves winding through the lichen-stained catacombs below the city. The wide-eyed boy and the human woman were among them. The lanky runaway had gone to another bidder, but judging by the look of this place, Avira was certain the young mage got the better end of the deal. They trudged through ruins of lost civilizations: some ancient Tevinter, some elven, some of origins she could not place.

The air was thick, old and stale, but the Veil unsettlingly thin.

She couldn’t imagine the Void itself would be much worse.

The descent had taken hours, and the way was treacherous. The dilapidated paths were so narrow at some points that they had to pass in a side-step or risk falling into the dark of the chasm below.

The boy staggered, almost losing his footing. Avira reflexively thrust her arm out in front of him, pressing him back to the wall. _At least that accursed thing did some good,_ she thought. He started hyperventilating, his chest rising and falling against her palm.

“Hey, look at me,” she said, trying her best to conceal her own fear, “it will be okay.” She extended her hand. “Here. Take my hand. I won’t let you fall.”

Hesitantly, he peeled his own hand away from the stone and entrusted it to her. She tightened her grip, easing him along the ridge.

“See, we’re almost across!” she coaxed, “you’re doing great.”

By the time they reached the other side, the boy fell to his knees, digging his fingers into the earth with a weary sob. _Poor thing._ She needed to get him moving before the rear guard reached them. She did not want him to suffer the lash. Avira crouched down next to him, gently placing her hand on his back.

“You must be tired. I could carry you for a while, if you’d like. I don’t mind the walking.”

The boy thought about it for a moment, then pointed at her prosthetic arm.

“Oh that? Don’t worry. It’s metal, nice and strong.” She knocked on it with her fist for effect. He let out a giggle. “Come on, just until you regain your strength.”

She bent down for him, gesturing at her back, and he climbed on, nestling his chin into the crook of her shoulder.

“You are Milahni?” he asked. The boy had a keen memory.

“Yes, I am.”

“I know the other lady said...but I’m Pyrrhus.”

“Nice to meet you, Pyrrhus. How old are you?”

“Nine and a half.”

“Nine and a _half?_ A fine age! I’m sure you’ll grow up to be a strapping young man.”

He smiled.

“Well, Pyrrhus you are being very brave. More brave than I would have been at your age.”

“I don’t feel very brave,” he admitted.

“Want to know a secret? I don’t either. But you don’t need to worry. I’ll look out for you. You have my word.”

“We’ll look out for each other,” he whispered, holding her closer.

 

* * *

 

The boy fell asleep on her shoulder, head bobbing with her steps. Her arm was growing quite sore, but she didn’t want to deprive him the momentary peace. Being underground set her teeth on edge; her time in the Deep Roads was not easily forgotten. She kept expecting darkspawn to appear from around the next corner or ambush them from behind. She bated her breaths, trying to attune her ears to the first sound of trouble. Every echo sounded like a shriek, every murmur a hurlock. Darkspawn had been the face of her nightmares since they overran Amaranthine when she was a child. _Pyrrhus' age, actually._ Her family were among the few survivors of the Alienage. She jumped at every little noise, gaze darting back and forth.

Her discomfort must have been apparent. The human woman was staring at her.

“That arm isn’t going to hold much longer,” she remarked bluntly.

“Thank you for noticing,” Avira replied, a little annoyed at the observation.

After a pause, the woman said, “Here. Give him to me.”

Avira hadn’t expected _that._

“Really? I – thank you,” Avira replied, shifting Pyrrhus into her arms. The woman carried him with far more ease.

“He is too young to be here,” she said. “You cannot legally sell yourself into slavery until fourteen.”

“You think he sold himself? Why?”

“Why do you think? He was starving.”

“And he thought he’d eat better as a slave?”

“Absolutely,” she responded with an adage, “a starving slave is as useless as a blunt blade.”

That Tevinter’s poor lived in conditions so harsh that a child would sell his own freedom was evidence enough of its corruption. _Dorian had his work cut out for him_ , she thought. _That is, if he was still alive._ But she had her own fate to attend to.

“What of this Theocritus? Why do you think he’s sending us all underground?” Avira feared she already knew the answer, but was hoping for a slightly less fatalistic explanation.

The woman hiked Pyrrhus up a bit further on her hip. “Well, being owned by a Magister can go either way. They have wealth enough to provide a good life for their slaves should they wish, but they’re just as likely to use us to fuel their blood magic.”

She lowered her voice. “And don’t tell the boy, but him buying in bulk isn’t a good sign.”

_Ah. So they weren’t leaving this place alive._

 

* * *

 

They emerged from the tunnels into a cavernous expanse, an ancient temple situated at its heart. Slivers of sunlight cascaded in from the surface above, but did little to penetrate the darkness. Massive stalactites were formed into intricate pillars, lining the path of the temple’s approach. A jet stone carving of a Great Dragon dominated the temple’s structure, its menacing eyes and maw crackling with veilfire. As they crossed the bridge to the temple grounds, Avira could hear the rush of a river below them. It did not smell like water.

Every fiber of her being told her to run, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She wasn’t quite sure why: be it the phylacteries, her promise to Pyrrhus, or the resigned glaze of hopelessness in so many of the veterans’ eyes.

The hall echoed with the yell of guards and the crack of whips, underscored by a gut-wrenching, mechanical churn. Spirits with vacant expressions patrolled the halls on monotonous routes, like it was all they’d ever known. Guards carried a slave through on a burlap stretcher - unconscious and bleeding. Avira guided Pyrrhus to her other side, hoping he wouldn’t see.

The temple seemed to have a pulse of its own, not so much heard as felt. She found it as unsettling as it was inexplicable. The beating grew more palpable as they moved toward the center of the temple.

The guards ushered Avira and the other new slaves into a large central chamber. A woman stood on a dais at the front of the room, preparing something at the altar behind her. As the woman’s assistants lit the torches around her, Avira couldn’t help but notice the grated floor in front of the altar, nor the wide berth the woman gave it as she turned to greet the new slaves.

“Greetings, _novicia._ I am your Overseer. You have been called to a higher purpose, chosen by our master to usher in a new age,” she declared. “Your sacrifices will be great, but with great sacrifice comes great reward.”

_Well, shit._

“Not two years ago, I was one of you– scared, lost, and without hope. But I put my trust in my master; did as he willed. Now, I have a family, a home, and a life of my own. This can be your good fortune too, should you be dutiful and loyal _servani_.”

It astonished Avira how much of this practice was completely self-enforced; many of the guards, and the Overseer herself, were current or former slaves. But she supposed she could understand how the promise of property and a family felt generous when you’ve been deprived of both your entire life.

“Now, some will try to lead you astray. They will sow discontent, poisoning your minds with thoughts of betrayal and rebellion.”

As the Overseer spoke, the guards brought forth a prisoner, a middle-aged elven man, and positioned him over the grate.

“You must ignore their lies. For just as your master’s rewards for obedience are generous, the price for betrayal is severe.”

_This isn’t right,_ Avira thought, toes clenching in her shoes. _I have to end this._

The Overseer walked to the stone altar behind them. Upon it sat a phylactery, a ceremonial blade, and a bladeless hilt. She dipped both in the prisoner’s phylactery, then returned.

Battered yet defiant, the elf donned a brave face. He closed his eyes as the Overseer moved towards him, expecting her to slit his throat.

Instead, she placed the steel blade in his hand.

Confused, the prisoner opened his eyes, staring down at the blade. But as the Overseer pointed the hilt at her own throat, the prisoner’s body mirrored with the blade. His eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen. Avira did too.

“Pyrrhus,” Avira frantically whispered, “cover your ears and close your eyes.” He looked back at her blankly. “ _Now_ ,” she hissed, pulling him closer as he complied.

The Overseer began guiding his blade with her hilt. Some of the slaves tried to turn away, but the guards forced them to watch as the man carved himself apart.

Helpless to intervene, Avira felt her body seizing up in cold sweat. Her stomach churned as her heart and mind raced.

_Oh gods, this isn’t happening. I need to get out of here. Have to get out. They’re going to kill us, we’re going to die._

Her magic began stirring violently, rage and terror threatening to spill over into flame.

_Keep in control, keep in control, there’s nothing you can do. Keep it together. Please, just let him die already. Gods, let him die._

The prisoner’s gurgled sobs finally died down. Avira cried with relief. As the guards cleaned up the entrails, the human woman leaned her head against Avira’s shoulder. One of the slaves had fainted; several more had fallen ill. Pyrrhus was curled up in a ball at her feet, refusing to uncover his eyes.

Avira would have sworn she saw the Overseer wiping tears from her cheek. The woman shook it off and blinked a few times before addressing the captive crowd once more.

“Do not grieve,” she said, her voice softening. “ _Servani_ such as that act only for themselves, and in so doing, endanger us all. Had he succeeded in his plans against our master, we would have all been held accountable. His life, therefore, was forfeit. He was to be made an example, as our master commands.”

The Overseer moved into the crowd, lifting Pyrrhus to his feet. She tenderly cupped his cheek and stroked his hair with a smile. “No need for despair, little one. So long as we each do our part, and stay true to our duties, _that_ is the path to freedom.”

 

* * *

 

It disturbed Avira how quick some of the others were able to settle in. Within a few hours of having been deposited in their quarters, they were picking out bedrolls, chattering among themselves, spurring conversation with the _veterana_ , and taking swills from a communal bottle of crude wine. _A sort of insistent denial of what they’d all just experienced_ , she figured.

But that joviality withered fast when the latch on their door came unbarred.

_The Bleeder._ That’s what the other slaves were calling him. But for one with such an intimidating name, he was an unimposing man, neither handsome nor homely, nothing menacing about him. But men almost twice his size still flinched as he drew near.

“Who should go first today?” he asked. The veterana all looked away, unwilling to meet his eye.

He eyed up the human woman. “You are new. Nice and strong. What do you say?” he smiled, placing a hand on her arm.

The woman pulled away, sensing everyone else’s reluctance.

“No.” she asserted. “I am not going anywhere with you.”

The veterani closest to her looked like she wanted to say something, but carefully held her tongue.

The Bleeder laughed, for a little longer that would have been comfortable. “Oh! You want to resist today? I can work with that. Guards, take her in back.”

“Leave her alone!” Pyrrhus yelled, charging at the Bleeder.

“No, don’t!” Avira cried, but it was too late.

The Bleeder caught the boy’s punch, holding Pyrrhus firmly by his wrist.

“Someone is feeling like being a hero today, hmm?”

The woman, restrained by two guards, pleaded, “Let him go. He is just a child!”

The Bleeder gave her a sad smile. “It is not my mandate to decide who is placed under my charge. I am simply here to maximize yield.”

He took Pyrrhus by the hand. “Come now, young man. Let’s go be a hero, just like you wanted.”

Wild eyed, the boy looked back to Avira for aid. On the edge of her seat, she looked to one of the veterana, who gently shook their head _no._

“Milahni!” Pyrrhus called, realizing his mistake.

“Don’t worry,” she replied, trying to sound comforting even as her voice trembled. “It will be alright. Just do as he says. You’ll be back in no time.”

 

* * *

 

The next few hours were more than she could bear. The screaming from the back room left too much to her imagination. Eyes closed, she rested her head between her palms, tapping her foot anxiously, syncopating with the pulse of the temple. One of the older qunari wordlessly took a seat beside her.

“They will not kill them.”

“Why do you say that?” Avira asked.

“We are a blood source. We do not produce if we are dead.”

She looked with newfound horror at the heavily scarred limbs of the veterana. “But, why? What even is this place?”

The qunari shrugged. “Hard to say. Worked for Theocritus before, in fields, mines, estates, but it was never like this. Few years ago, his men just took us all away. Not sure why. We did nothing wrong.”

He stared off into space, his expression twisting. “They just take and take and take. They say it serves some purpose, but they never bothered to tell us what purpose this pain could possibly serve.”

“Does nobody try to flee?” Avira asked.

“They do not get far. They always find you.”

“You would need to destroy your phylactery first,” she murmured.

“A – phylactery?”

“The vial of blood they draw when you first become a slave. With magic, it can be used to locate the blood’s source.”

He leaned forward in his chair, studying her face with scrutiny. _They must not have known_.

“You speak truth,” he finally declared. “How do you know of this?”

“Where I’m from, the templars used phylacteries to keep mages confined to their circles.”

“Mages were locked away by their templars?” His eyes lit up. The idea seemed to genuinely please him.

“Yes,” she replied. “Many in the south believe mages too dangerous to be allowed to live freely.”

“Your homeland sounds like a wonderful place,” he smiled.

She decided to let him hold onto that thought, to not to tell him of the mage rebellion, the war, or of her own abilities. She simply returned his smile.

 

* * *

 

Avira jumped when the bar on the door came unlatched. A young elven woman entered, unescorted. Avira had seen her before – the slave who’d been used to fuel Theocritus’ curse at the _provocatio_.

Avira took her cues from the veterana. They called the girl “Vita”, and regarded her with quiet reverence. She moved through the room, examining them all; speaking to a few.

She must have been pretty once. She had the trappings of beauty: small frame, soft features, and amber-brown eyes. And though _pretty_ was no longer a word one would use to describe her, she was certainly striking. Though she couldn’t have even seen two decades, she looked impossibly old: her flowing hair brittle, already dusted with grey. Dark circles pooled under bloodshot eyes, wrinkles starting to form at their creases.

Vita looked better fed than the other slaves, but her skin was eerily pale - almost translucent - like there was hardly any blood flowing beneath it. And despite clearly being unwell, she had a distinct air of weary strength, the hard-won sort a girl her age should never have endured enough to earn.

As she passed, a pit formed in Avira’s stomach: an unsettling blend of pity and intimidation. Somehow, the girl felt like death. Her frail body was laced with scars: the ornate marks signature to blood magic, the deep, boring punctures of the magrallen, and the jagged strips of the lash. Brands of magic ran up her spine, down her sternum, then around both wrists. Only her face remained untouched. Clearly her master fancied it.

After consulting with one of the others, she turned to Avira, studying her face. “They say there was a child who came in with you.”

“Yes,” Avira said, “a boy, not even ten.”

The girl frowned. “Is he yours?”

Avira shook her head.

Vita turned away abruptly, picking up a sharp stone. On the doorframe, she chiseled a symbol: a single, upturned palm.

Several of the veterana tried to approach her, offering her small parcels - petitioning in hushed tones. Her face gave no indication of the nature of the conversations, but Avira gathered that she must be in some position of some influence.

The sound of footsteps began to grow louder from the back room.

“Shh!” Vita snapped, gesturing with her hand at her neck for silence.

The Bleeder entered, a guard carrying Pyrrhus along behind him. The boy’s arms were wrapped in gauze, which was already starting to soak through with crimson.

Avira met his eyes, which brimmed with tears. He ran to her when they set him down, burying his face in her shoulder and letting out a shaky sob. She clenched her jaw as she stared down the Bleeder, unable to comprehend the evil of a man who could do this to a child. She wanted to kill him, but she stayed her hand; she would not further endanger the others.

As the Bleeder selected his next ‘volunteers’, she stroked the boy’s hair. “See?” she whispered. “You’re back, and I’m here. I’ll take care of you. You’re alright.”

Pyrrhus wiped his tears in her tunic. “But the other lady isn’t,” he choked.

She held him a bit tighter as they escorted the next few slaves out. She could not bring herself to think about what he meant by that. “Here, let me see your arms,” she said. Hesitantly, he offered them to her so she could begin to unravel the gauze. Intricate symbols, drawn all the way around both arms with what must have been a very fine razor. He winced as she moved his arms, the skin around the cuts puffy and irritated.

“Don’t be scared,” she smiled, holding her palm above his forearm. White light started to emanate from her fingers, pouring into the wound, stitching the skin shut and numbing his pain.

Discreet as she tried to be, it did not take long for the others to take notice. Those closest to her stared, backing away, trying to put as much distance between themselves and her as they could. At first, Vita was awash with surprise, but her eyes quickly narrowed as she moved toward them.

“No,” she snapped, grabbing Avira’s wrist. “Do not touch him.”

Avira looked up at her, bewildered. “What? I am just healing him!”

“Obey me,” the girl snarled.

“Why can’t I help him?” Avira pleaded.

“You ask too many questions,” Vita declared. She turned sharply and left, returning with a guard. “This one goes next,” she ordered, pointing at Avira.

Avira looked back, confused, as he escorted her to the collection chamber.

She had no idea why there’d be need for such horrific implements just to draw blood: scalpels, knives, pokers, wedges, and pliers splayed out on the table, spiked cages hardly large enough for a person, stretching boards, hooks, and chains suspended over grates.

The worst of these implements was the magrallen. A metallic dragon claw cradled a large, pulsating globe of blood, tubes spindling up from it like veins. She traced the tubes up to their source, letting out a sickened gasp. An ouroboros was suspended from the ceiling, the woman hanging limp at its center, tubes boring under her skin. She looked down at Avira, weakly.

Impulsively, Avira tore herself out of the guard’s grasp, running, frantically fumbling to undo the chains that rigged the woman to the ceiling. The guard rushed to restrain her, tugging her by the waist. She turned towards him, splaying her hand across his chest, producing a spirit bolt that pierced through his heart and out his back.

The Bleeder stopped work on the current slave, watching her intently.

Avira lowered the ouroboros, which tilted forward as it descended. It held the woman in a standing position, though she lacked the strength to do so on her own. Avira worked the belt loose, trying to figure out how to pull the tubes from her body. “I am so sorry,” she cried, pulling the first tube from her leg.

The woman rasped in pain, too exhausted to scream, as Avira fumbled to cover the wound and seal it with her magic.

“Five more. Stay with me,” she pleaded, pulling the second one out with a sharp jerk. She was drenched to the elbow with blood by now, working the third tube loose.

The woman looked over Avira’s shoulder, eyes wide. Before Avira could turn, she felt an armored fist bash her in the back of her head.

Avira fell. Armored guards rushed to collect her as the Bleeder strolled over, wiping his knife.

“Well, _this_ was interesting,” he remarked.

Avira looked to the woman. “She is dying!” she cried.

“She would not have died in the magrallen, but _now_ …” He looked over to the human as well, who was bleeding out onto the floor.

“Bastard,” Avira spat, “you will suffer for this.” She called forth her mana, but the crushing weight of magic suppression drained all she had.

“From the phylacteries, I knew there’d be a _incaensor_ of considerable potency in my charge, so naturally, precautions were taken,” The Bleeder said, gesturing to the guards restraining her. _Templars,_ she realized. “And now,” he added with a small smile, “you’ve been so kind as to reveal yourself.”

He approached her, stroking her cheek. “It doesn’t have to be this hard. I can help you. Once you accept your place, you will be most useful.”

“You will not break me,” she snarled.

“Everyone breaks.”

 

* * *

 

The most unnerving thing about The Bleeder was how _unaffected_ he was, neither sympathetic nor sadistic. Even as his victims wailed under his knife, he was undeterred; diligently focused on his task, as serene and collected as a kindly old herbalist tending a garden.

And he was a skilled gardener.

Apparently, the first step in breaking in an unruly slave – which she had now been deemed – was allowing her to watch the suffering of others suffer while rendering her incapable of helping. Admittedly, effective. She tried to think of something else, anything else, but could not distance her thoughts from the present. Her eyes kept flitting back to the woman, now shackled above a grate, her blood steadily streaming into the reservoir below. She was not sure if the Bleeder had been telling the truth when he blamed Avira for his decision to let the woman bleed out, but the guilt ate at her nevertheless.

Eventually the Bleeder gestured to Avira. The guards pulled her forward by the shackles on upper arms, looping them through one of the hooks on the ceiling. They pulled a lever on the wall, lifting her just off the ground. As they clapped irons on her ankles, she strained to reach the floor with her toes, hoping to take some of the weight off her shoulders.

He moved closer, studying an old scroll. “I am trying to find the action that best corresponds with your transgressions,” he explained, tapping a spot on the paper with his index finger. “Admittedly, there isn’t a predetermined correction for using magic to evade and kill a guard, then interfering with the collection process. But ‘attempting to run’, ‘murdering a guard’ and ‘unauthorized use of magic’ seem as close as anything, so we can just go with those.”

The Bleeder showed her the list, probably not even caring whether or not she could read. Once she found the punishments to which he referred, she almost wished she couldn’t.

 

* * *

 

The mark had been painful, to say the least, especially toward the end: growing unstable, splintering its way through skin and muscle and cartilage and bone as it ruptured and expanded. There were times when they neared a rift, when it dragged her up into the air, spinning her round, throwing her violently, fade energy permeating its way further up her arm, that the pain was enough to make her ill.

That pain had not prepared her for this.

The knife peeling along the soles of her feet was… far too slow. Her stomach lurched every time The Bleeder sliced further from the heel toward the ball of her foot. She cried. She retched. She tried not to scream, not to give them the satisfaction, but she screamed nonetheless until her throat burned with bile. Even before she knew the truth, her faith in the Creators had never been strong, but she prayed to them now, to Andraste, to the fucking Maker himself, to whoever could possibly still be listening.

All she got was silence.

She hung there, now, no longer able to stand on her own feet, trying to still the sobs that wracked her so as not to dislocate her shoulders. Her soles were naked and raw, stinging and throbbing, all the tender ligaments and nerve endings exposed to the unforgiving air. When The Bleeder met her eyes once more, her whole body tensed. He wiped her tears with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. She understood, now, why more did not try run. And more disturbingly, in full knowledge of this punishment, that some still chose to do so.

A guard handed him the whip, lyrium shining dimly through caked on layers of gore.

“No,” she begged, breaths frantic and short as she watched him unfurl the cruelly thin lash.

“Pleading does not change your actions, actions for which your master demands an answer. Be thankful that Theocritus’ mercy is such that he chooses not to execute his slaves for such heinous crimes.”

She could not help but think death would have been a mercy for many of those she’d seen, those who lurked in the dark corners, picking at their scabs and prodding at their wounds, so acclimated to the pain that they needed it now to feel anything.

One of the guards tore away her shirt, exposing her back. Avira wrapped her wrist around the chain from which she was suspended, trying to brace herself for what was to come.

She felt the air crackling with magic before the the whip tore through her skin. She buckled, straining against her chains, trying not to accidentally put weight on her feet. The next few blows came in quick succession. She gritted her teeth, just concentrating on not breaking down. With each lash, the skin grew pulpier, and what started as a concentrated sear radiated and grew until her entire back felt like it was on fire.

The pain was far past unbearable, but the blows kept coming. She could not even keep count of how many lashes it had been. She felt like she was going to pass out, but she gritted her teeth more firmly, struggling to keep her eyes open.

It felt as though could not be much skin left. The whip sloshed as it hit. Bloody agony. Her arms finally gave, flayed feet taking the brunt on her weight as the whip lifted away more flesh from her back. Her head spun violently in a rush of blood, her vision blurring, everything dimming into blackness.

 

* * *

 

“Avira,” a voice said, in a tone both gentle and insistent.

Dazed, Avira strained to open her eyes, trying to figure out what was happening. She was still light-headed, everything around her impossibly bright.

She heard the distant crack of a whip, and vaguely felt the blow land. Remembering herself, she gasped, body shaking uncontrollably.

The figure steadied her in his arms, a soothing wave of magic enveloping her as the whip cracked again. “Do not allow your mind to wander back there. Focus on the sound of my voice, feel the rise and fall of breath through your lungs.”

Though distorted, the lilt of his voice was somehow familiar. _What is going on?_ she thought, trying to make out his face under the dark hood. A gauntleted hand stroked her hair.

“Do not worry about that for the moment; it will become clear in time. For now, I would ask you to concentrate on a place in which you feel safe.”

She did not have the energy to ask why, so she complied.

***

The first place to come to mind, strangely, was Skyhold. As her surroundings came into focus, she was back in her quarters, dust floating through the colored rays that poured in through the stained glass. She sat up, cautiously looking around before examining herself. Her feet, her back, her arrow wounds, all healed. No prosthetic, no rags, no blood.

She padded out of the room, feeling the carpet and the rough stone under her toes. For it being midday, Skyhold was abnormally empty, not a servant nor a soldier in sight. It felt _unsettlingly_ comfortable there, the aroma of her favorite meal filling the great hall, the mellifluous chime of the mountain air blowing through the chandeliers.

The glow of veilfire flickered in the rotunda. She moved close, expecting it to be exactly as Solas had left it. Instead, the scaffolding had moved, and the previously unfinished fall of Corypheus panel had been completed. The Dread Wolf, in the same style as it was depicted in the Vir Dirthara, stood over the Red Lyrium dragon, the Sword of the Inquisition piercing its heart.

She pressed her palm to the plaster, lowering her head, squeezing her eyes shut to quell the sting of tears. _This isn’t real_ , she realized. _Solas never finished this panel._ Wearily, she went and sat in his armchair, the place in which the memory of him was so thoroughly etched.

There was a new book, a treatise on the Old Gods. It wasn’t covered in the same thick film of dust as the rest. It was opened to a depiction of Lusacan, with scales so dark they seemed to meld with the shadow in which he dwelled. Avira scanned the page, trying to make sense of why it was here. She pressed her fingers into her temple. What she _wanted_ to find was answers about her current situation, not…whatever this was. She picked up the book and started pacing, trying to discern some meaning. As she approached the veilfire for more light, she felt the pages start to resonate. Her eyes widened. She held the book a bit closer as the page started to glow.

Avira almost dropped the book when she saw what was on the page: in Lusacan’s claws, previously obscured by shadow, was an orb. An _Elven_ orb. She didn’t know what it meant. She immediately sat, trying to flip through the pages for more, but the harder she searched, the more insistently she felt herself being pulled away from her surroundings.

“You cannot remain here,” the voice lamented. “I am sorry.”

She felt a knot in her stomach as she remembered what she would be returning to. _No, please…I don’t want to go back,_ she pleaded, the light around her growing blinding.

The silhouette of the hooded figure walked through the rays, reaching out to touch her cheek. “Linger here for too long and you will not be able to return. But it is imperative that you do.”

The rotunda, the book, everything started to fall away, except the figure before her, his eyes beginning to glow ice blue.

“…Solas?” she finally realized.

“Wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TEVENE  
> Novicia = newly enslaved (plural)  
> Veterana = seasoned slaves  
> Incaensor = a dangerous substance, such as raw lyrium. Often used as derogatory slang for a magic-using slave.
> 
> ELVHEN  
> Dhru’an = the temple


	5. Alinni

Avira jolted into consciousness, flinching as if she expected to take another blow.

But it never came.

Utterly disoriented, she blinked a few times, trying to regain her bearings. She was back in the slave quarters. Everyone kept their distance, save Pyrrhus, who was staring down at her in disbelief.

“You are better,” he gaped.

She tilted her head, examining the soles of her feet. Both were healed. _How was that possible?_ She gently pressed her back against the wall – again, nothing. Her arrow wounds had both been healed, too. And she had a lyrium collar clamped around her neck. That was new.

“...How?” she asked. “Did someone come heal me like I healed your arm before?”

He shook his head ‘no’. “The scary man looked worried. He was talking about somni...something.”

She paused. “Somniari, maybe?”

He nodded. “That’s it. Somniari.”

Avira’s brow furrowed. Dorian had used that term to describe dreamers. Had Solas done this somehow? She considered their first encounter in the Fade:

> _“This isn’t real,” she breathed, looking around. Even though some part of her knew Haven to be buried in ice and rock, nothing about her surroundings felt like a dream._
> 
> _“That’s a matter of debate,” Solas smirked. “Probably best discussed after you...wake up.”_

The idea that he could alter something in reality from the Fade was as amazing as it was disconcerting. And the fact that he had intervened in her sleep, even if it only to help her, confirmed her need to worry about his ability to discover her plans. _How much did he know?_

She paused, pulled from her thoughts, realizing there was someone she had not yet seen. “The human woman, from before. Is she still here?”

He wordlessly pointed back to the extraction chamber. She followed him quickly, hoping the woman still lived. Scraps of her skin were still lying in the middle of the room, the bloodied lyrium whip coiled on the floor. _It was real. It had happened._ She wasn’t sure whether she found that reassuring or not _._

Sure enough, the woman was slumped in the corner. Avira rushed to her side. At first glance, she looked far too still to be alive, but the slight, straining movement of her chest meant that she was, no matter how tenuously.

“Pyrrhus, this wound needs to be bound. Can you find some cloth?” He nodded and scurried off. Avira pressed her hands over the hole, trying to stem the loss of blood. The woman’s eyelids fluttered. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me now, okay?” Avira pleaded, wishing the lyrium collar did not prevent her from healing. “We’re going to get this sealed. You are going to get through this.”  
  
With effort, the woman gradually opened her eyes, her voice hoarse. “You...you tried to save me. Why?”

“It was the right thing to do. I am sorry it turned out like this.”

The woman’s mouth opened and shut a few times, as if she could not decide on the words.

“Despoena. My name. If...I’m going to die, it would be nice if someone knew it.”

“No. You aren’t going to die. Not today. Not because of me,” Avira insisted.

Pyrrhus came back with a pile of rags. He handed them to Avira, who began rolling the most absorbent-looking one up into a cylinder. “Alright Despoena, this is going to hurt a bit.” she warned. “Stay with me.”  
  
Despoena’s head tilted up and down up a bit, as if to nod. Avira pressed the cloth into the hole, the woman hissing as the fabric entered her side. Avira ripped another piece, wrapping it around the woman’s torso to compress the wound, using her teeth and her good hand to tie it off with a tight knot. Layer by layer, she added more fabric until the blood stopped seeping through. It would not make up for her loss, but it would stop it from getting worse, at least.

Avira worked off the buckles of the prosthetic, twisting and working it loose, then sighing in relief as it fell to the stone with a clank. She rubbed her arm, bending and flexing it a few times: raw from the metal; prickly from the sudden rush of sensation.

Pyrrhus could not help but stare. “Why are you missing an arm?”

She chuckled sardonically. “That, I’m afraid, is quite a long story.” She studied Despoena. “Pyrrhus, is there water in our quarters you could bring our friend here? She needs to drink if she can.”

He nodded and ran off again, only too eager to help.

Avira repositioned the woman to lay against her shoulder, putting light pressure on the wrapped wound. Despoena looked up at her, eyes glassing over.

“I am... so tired.”  
  
“No,” Avira said, rousing her gently, stroking her cheek. “You need to stay awake.” Pyrrhus came back with a pouch of water, which Avira promptly uncorked. “Here. Drinking will help.”  
  
Despoena parted her lips, and Avira brought the pouch to them, tilting it up slowly, watching for her to swallow. She did, grunting a bit, and after a few more arduous sips, seemed to be able to keep her eyes open with a bit less difficulty.

But Avira could not shake the nagging feeling in her gut, reminding her that she could not save everyone. That for every life she saved, there were many more she couldn’t. Yet even with the sky torn apart and most of the country still reeling from war and rifts and chaos, there had been reason for hope. Even though she had largely carried the burden of being the symbol of that hope at her own expense.

How do you motivate those who are fighting against the odds? You remind them what they are fighting for: their families, their lives, their dreams.

But there was no hope here, and she almost wondered if, were she in the woman’s place, she’d have wanted to live through the night. But it was not her place to decide. So as the candles died out, she passed the time like she had with the dying soldiers in the surgery ward at Skyhold: telling stories of simpler times, of milder adventures, and of a world better than their own.

 

* * *

 

She jumped at the sound of footsteps approaching in the dark. The candles had long since burned out; the mild scent of smoke and wax not doing nearly enough to mask the unmistakably metallic smell of fresh blood that flowed through the channels beneath them.

Avira instructed Pyrrhus to hide, then crept closer to the doorframe of the extraction chamber to try to get a better look into the slave quarters.

The torchlight they brought with them illuminated a head of auburn hair, interrupted by the slightly downturned point of her ears. The elf lit the sconces on the wall, studied the markings on the doorframe, then walked the room, counting the _servani_ as she went.

Confused, she went back to the doorframe, checking the markings again before going out into the hall. When she returned, Vita was with her.

The red-headed elf pointed at one the markings on the door frame: the upturned palm that Vita had drawn earlier. “Isn’t there supposed to be a child?”  
  
Vita looked around, unsure what had happened to him. “Yes there was, but there is no time.”

Together, the two bound the hands of all the _servani_ in the room to a longer guide rope. Some pleaded with Vita. “Where are we going? Please. Don’t let her take us. I will give you more of my rations next week. Whatever you want.”

“You are not to make a sound. Follow Tallis without question, or she will be forced to silence you.”

_So this was what the bribes were for. To try to avoid...whatever this was._

Evidently none of it worked. If they were too loud, they were gagged as well. Avira had no idea where they were being taken either, but her pulse raced at the utter fear in all their voices. If she hadn’t learned from the last time she tried to intervene, she might have tried to stop this Tallis from taking them.

One of the women, a veterana, jerked her hands away, backing towards the door. “You go too far, Vita. I will not let you.” She raised her voice, pounding on the door. “Guards! Help! Gua-”  
  
Vita caught her from behind, running her through with a short blade. Avira clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp. Vita sighed, lowering the woman to the ground. “Very well. Your blood will serve, instead.”

She picked up the guide rope, handing it to Tallis. “Now go. Quickly.”

Tallis nodded wordlessly in acknowledgement, then led the _servani_ out.

Vita strained to drag the woman she’d killed back into the collection chamber. To let her know that she’d been watching, Avira stepped out into the slave quarters, helping her move the body. Vita looked at her incredulously. “So you saw all of this,” she muttered.

Avira smiled, knowing this gave her leverage. “And unlike this woman, if you pull a dagger on me, you will die on it.”

Vita’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

Avira gestured with her head back to the collection chamber. “Despoena. She is going to die if she is left until morning. And without magic, I cannot do anything more to help her. If you can bring her medicine or something, and are able to spare her life, I will not tell anyone what I’ve seen.”

Vita scowled, then sighed. “Very well,” she agreed. They laid the woman out over the grate, ensuring that her blood would drain into the channels. “Waste not,” Vita remarked. She walked over to Despoena and knelt, looking over her wounds.

“I am surprised that you did not just have her take both of us, too,” Avira said, rubbing the back of her neck.

“She would not have survived the trip, and you...well, you’ve drawn far too much attention to yourself. Impossible.” She looked down at the skin on the floor, then back at Avira. She seemed as surprised as everyone else that she was healed. “The boy, did you see where he was taken?”

Avira debated whether to tell her, but finally relented, urging Pyrrhus out of hiding. “He has been back here, with us.”

She looked to the boy, eyes wide, then back to Avira. “Why did you hide him?” she snapped.  “Did you know we were coming?”

Avira shook her head. “He was helping me with Despoena when we heard footsteps. We had no idea who was coming, so I told him to stay out of sight.”

She huffed. “You truly are a fool.” After unwrapping the dressing, she took out a potion, pouring it onto Despoena’s wound. “Leave us. Take the boy and get out.”  
  
Knowing that every conversation with this girl seemed to end with more questions than answers, Avira took Pyrrhus’ hand, looking back at Despoena one last time before shutting the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

When she awoke, an entirely new batch of slaves had replaced those who were taken the night before. Despoena emerged from the extraction chamber, helping an even paler-looking Vita move through the room. The others, without being asked, rushed to her aid. Avira could not help but notice the girl’s newly-bandaged arms.  
  
Despoena sat down by Avira, and even though she looked straight ahead, a small smile spread over her lips as she spoke. “Thank you. I did not have the ability to say that properly last night, but...you saved my life. I am in your debt.”

Avira shook her head. “You owe me nothing. After all, the Bleeder said that he was using you to try to break me, so the way I see it, your life was my responsibility.”

Despoena grunted, not really believing that what happened to her was Avira’s fault but not wishing to argue.

“Do you remember what Vita did, after I left?” Avira asked.

She thought it over, brow furrowing. “She hooked us both up to that globe thing - the magrallen - and gave me her own blood to replace what I’d lost. I tried to thank her, but she seemed annoyed that I was even acknowledging what she’d done.”

Avira barked a laugh. “She’s a delight, isn’t she?” She still did not know what to make of the girl. After all, she was the one who sent her to the Bleeder for trying to help Pyrrhus. Not to mention whatever she and this Tallis had done with the other slaves. Were they being relocated? Sold? Sacrificed? Why did they all fear it so? That veterana woman was killed for yelling for the guards, which in Avira’s mind, implied that Vita was not acting on their orders. She could not figure out what this Vita was up to.

Her pulse started to race immediately as the door came unbarred from the other side. After all, nothing good ever came through it. The Overseer entered the room, flanked by guards and attendants on either side. She moved with an anxious flurry, looking over everyone in the room. “Get them cleaned up. He will be here any minute.” The attendants rushed to change them all into clean clothes and tidy up their hair, spraying some sort of perfumed water on them to cover up the smell of sweat and toil.

“All of you here today will have the great honor of meeting our lord, Theocritus, in the flesh. But with that honor comes rules, ones you would be wise to adhere to. Bow upon his entrance. Bow upon his exit. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not look him in the eyes. If he asks you about your workload, you tell him that you are worked to exhaustion but content. Your rations are filling, and your treatment is fair. Remember, we are all bound to one another. Your words and actions around the master affect us all. And I know it goes without saying, but in the event that anything were to happen to our lord while he was here…” She looked down, face twisting with discomfort. “We would all be put to death. As is the law of the land.”

Her expression snapped back to its usual, rehearsed smile. “Be sure that you do not fail us.”

* * *

 

The room almost felt darker as he entered. Though Avira bowed as instructed, she ventured a quick look up. Seeing him again made her ill. _Dorian, writhing on the ground in pain._ Did he live?  

She was pulled out of her thoughts by the too-tender grip of his scarred hands on her jaw, turning her eyes up from the ground to look into his. “So this is my prize from the _provocatio._ 899\. Such _potentia_ is remarkable enough, but it seems to have caused me to overlook your true value.”

He scowled at a thought. “Perhaps the Altus knew. Perhaps that is why he was willing to die to have you. But he was weak where I am strong. And now I can turn your powers to my purpose.”

It took all Avira’s resolve not to appear affected by his words. She had to believe that he was still alive; that her plan hadn’t gotten him killed.

Theocritus was only buying those black market slaves with the highest _potentia_ , and it was evident this temple was being used to harvest their blood. But there were easily hundreds of cells just like hers in this temple, with more being excavated every day. It was more blood than a single magister could expend in a lifetime. What was it for?

He urged her to her feet. “Come. You will be put on display at my manor this evening. We have an important guest, and I think you will make a good impression.”

She clenched her teeth, pressing her lips into a neutral line. She hoped for the others’ sake he could not feel the contempt radiating off her. Not just for what he’d done to Dorian, or to her for that matter, but for his willingness to buy people for their blood and discard what was left of their humanity like a husk.

Theocritus and his men led her outside the temple. He drew a glowing circle around them in the earth, and a ring of the same size soon appeared in the blackness of the cavern above. He called down the platform of stone he’d created, the blinding light left in its absence akin to a sun. But its light was far crueler; a way out that most would never live to take. More often, you left in parts: ashes in the air and blood in the rivers.

They climbed onto the platform, and with a tap of his staff, it began to rise at a sickening pace. To her chagrin, she clutched onto him, suddenly realizing she had no access to her magic to break the fall. He wrapped his arm around her with a smile.  
  
Her eyes watered uncontrollably at the sunlight. She had no idea how long it had been since she’d seen it, and her eyes struggled to adjust. Theocritus handed her off to his guards, who escorted her, functionally blind, indoors to their final destination.

“Nastia, amatus, how is the estate looking?” she heard Theocritus ask. “We want to be sure that everything is perfect by the time Erebus arrives.”

A dwarven woman with a smoky voice responded. “Everything is perfect, save this filthy _rattas_ you brought with you.” Her pudgy hand squeezed Avira’s face, turning her to look into her stinging eyes. “A bit peaky.” She sniffed. “Smells like limestone. And...missing an arm? No, this will not do.” She released her, clapping her hands together. “Vita! Have this pit slave made more palatable for our esteemed guest. And just burn this sack of a garment. I don’t want it in my home.”

Avira’s vision finally started acclimating to the sunlight as Vita half-dragged her down the halls. “Making friends everywhere, aren’t you?” the girl muttered.

Avira couldn’t help but smirk at the girl’s annoyance. “Well, I am known for my charm,” she quipped dryly.

Vita led her out to the slave quarters. Judging by the size, Theocritus must have had at least a dozen slaves servicing his estate alone.

She looked through the racks, trying to find an outfit that would flatter Avira’s figure.

She held up a skimpy black outfit with an asymmetrical cut and a silver, serpentine cuff on the right arm. The draping on the left side looked as though it would mask her arm.  
  
Avira held it up, looking down at herself. “Not much to it, is there?” she mused.

Vita gestured to her own outfit. It was backless, only held up by a few strings.  
  
Avira laughed. “Ah, I see. Not exactly dressed for practicality, are we?”  
  
Vita’s expression did not change. “That tongue will gain you nothing here. Better being seen and not heard.” She gestured to the door, leading her outside to the slave baths. “Besides,” she added, handing Avira a towel, “say the wrong thing to Nastia, and you won’t have any tongue left.”

Avira winced at the thought. She had no interest in finding out whether Solas could restore her tongue should it be cut out.

She disrobed and stepped into the bath, pleasantly surprised to find it was warm. After working out the worst of the knots with her fingers, she bent her knees and tipped her head back, submerging her hair under the water. She closed her eyes and sighed in relief, allowing herself to let her guard down - if only for a moment. She carefully began working her hand through the remaining tangles, moving methodically from scalp to tip.

She waded to the ledge, sniffing the glass bottles to guess at the contents. She settled on washing with rice water, applying it at the roots and working it down to the ends.

She poured some olive oil in an empty dish, adding drops of neroli and sandalwood. The fragrance reminded her of home, which she found both deeply comforting and unspeakably painful at the same time.

 _Home._ It had been some time since she’d thought of it. Even as their First, most of the clan had no fondness for her. She was just the ‘flat-ear’ they’d taken in as a child, polluting the minds of their da’len with stories of life in the cities. Through her efforts in trade, she had tried her hardest to earn her keep and prove she belonged, but it never seemed to be enough to win more than begrudging tolerance. Still, she missed it in a way. Back then, the world felt smaller, the weight of her decisions less crushing, a time when the idle gossip and petty scheming of the hahren was her biggest concern.

Reluctantly, she wrung out her hair, then dried herself off as best she could. After grappling with the outfit for a while, trying to figure out how it was supposed to work, she began wrapping the top around herself, holding it in place with her elbow and using her opposite hand to maneuver the straps and hooks. The silver cuff was a challenge. She pressed it against her side and used her elbow to try to push it up her good arm. She draped the remaining fabric artfully over her missing arm, securing it in the belt on her bare waist.

She went back inside the slave quarters, pinning up her hair as best she could in the murky looking glass. She carefully applied eyeliner, lipstick, and a small amount of rouge - just to make herself look healthier.

A spirit appeared behind her. “There is a strand of hair out of place. On your left. Fix that.”

As she reached up to tuck back her hair, Avira turned to look at their form, trying to figure out what manner of spirit they were. “Let me guess...Order, is it?”

The spirit nodded, visibly relieved once her hair was fixed.

“There,” Order said. “Now you must get to the kitchens. Our guest is scheduled to arrive in five-and-a-half minutes, and the walk will take you at least three.”

Vita was already in the kitchens with the rest of the wait staff. She sighed upon seeing that Avira had arrived. “You clean up well. Nastia will be pleased.”

Avira knew better than to quip back.

Vita stepped out in front of the other slaves, appraising them all. “Our guest tonight is important to your master. He needs to leave here satisfied. Show him every courtesy. Give him anything he asks for.”

She took a step closer to Avira, eyes narrowing. “And for all our sakes, don’t do anything stupid.”

 

* * *

 

As confident as Theocritus generally was, the Magister sure seemed tense about the arrival of this guest. Even as the other magisters filed in with their entourages of slaves, he paced back and forth, compulsively checking the time, looking to Nastia for reassurance and snapping at his house slaves.

A young man in pointed robes came flying down the stairs, braiding his long, blonde hair into a neat plait as he went. With his fair skin and soft features, he did not appear to be related to Theocritus, but judging by his attire, he was clearly not a slave. And yet, he called the Theocritus ‘master’ as the man went to him, polishing a spot on his shoulder plate and whispering in his ear.

“Master,” the door attendant called. “Lord Erebus has arrived.” Avira could almost feel the room collectively holding their breath as the doors opened.

Considering how nervous the arrival of their guest seemed to make Theocritus, Avira did not know who she was expecting this Erebus to be. But whatever she was expecting, it was not for him to be an elf. He was taller than most elves she knew, his long, sleek robes only adding to the effect. He was almost statuesque, with high cheekbones and deep, penetrating eyes. Unlike the magisters - who tended to parade around their finest slaves - he was traveling alone. Though she had never seen the man before, the way he carried himself was somehow familiar: stoic, rigid, mind moving far faster than his lips.

He shook Theocritus’ hand, then moved on to Nastia’s. Her hand twitched, as if his grip were somehow painful. She did not pull away, though she looked like she wanted to.

Spirits and elves alike scurried to bring food and drink into the dining hall for the magisters and their esteemed guest. About a dozen in total. No one would give Avira anything to carry - she assumed because of her missing arm - so she just lingered close to the kitchen door, watching when she could and listening in when she couldn’t.

Erebus crossed his leg, consuming everything around him with his eyes as he idly listened to the magisters speak. Avira could not help but notice how often Theocritus laced his sentences with Tevene, as if trying to impress.

Erebus looked to the slaves. “Are you sure these are discussions you wish to have in front of your _servani_?”

“These simpletons?” Nastia cackled. She sharply grabbed Vita by the ear, pulling her down to her level. The girl’s face twisted with unspoken pain. “They are illiterate, and can only understand the most basic verbal commands.”

Nastia released her. “Besides, they know better than to betray the goodwill of their master, lest they end up in the pits with the others.” Vita simply refilled her glass.

“Very well,” Erebus said. “Theocritus, tell me. How close are we to meeting our goal?”

Theocritus took an exceedingly long time finishing chewing his bite of food. “We are making good progress, my lord. In addition to those our slavers bring in daily, I’ve been going to the black markets as often as I can, buying whatever high-potentia _servani_ I can find. We’ve had to cut back on slaves from within Tevinter, so as not to draw the attention of whomever sent that magekiller after Havian Sulara for buying in bulk.”

He passed some documents over to Erebus. “These are some of the locations I plan to send my slavers to exploit next.” Avira couldn’t help but notice that he seemed to be skirting the question. “I can take you down to the stores later if you wish. I am confident we will have the volume you need in time.”

“Very well,” Erebus said, taking a sip of his wine. “The Divine is about to call an emergency session of the Magisterium. Since the Ambassadoria has offered no real explanation for the lyrium shortage, they have someone they plan to interrogate who was at the heart of the matter.”

“Who is it, my lord?” Theocritus asked.  
  
Erebus smiled. “A certain Lucerni who’s been a thorn in your side. If the rest of the magisters respond as I anticipate, that news - alongside the growing threat of qunari aggression - will be impetus enough for them to try to legitimize alternate sources of power. That will be your opening.”

Theocritus’ eyes widened. “So soon? Are we truly ready to start bringing our...operation out into the open?

Erebus steepled his fingers, leaning forward. “That depends. This apprentice of yours. How are his efforts coming along?”

Everyone looked to the young, blonde man at the end of the table, his dark eyes fixed on the cup in his hands. He did not answer.

“Feynriel, boy, Erebus asked you a question,” Theocritus said. His tone was polite enough, but laced with a promise of menace.

Vita’s fingers grazed over Feynriel’s as she refilled his cup. He seemed to take it as a comfort.

“I...I spend more hours walking the Fade than I do these halls, but I have not yet found a way to do what you ask,” Feynriel finally replied.

Erebus’ jaw clenched.  
  
“But he will,” Theocritus assured. “He is a powerful dreamer. I have watched him shape the Fade before my very eyes. And...and as you instructed, I have even worked his training up so that he can kill men from his dreams. He is up for the task if anyone is.”

“I do hope you are correct, Theocritus,” Erebus said, polishing off the rest of his wine. “After all, I would hate to think what would happen to you should he fail.”

He locked eyes with Nastia, squeezing his wine glass in his hand until it broke. She wailed, dropping her glass, cradling her bloodied palm in her other hand. There were no glass shards to pick out, but every movement made her whimper as if there were.

Avira immediately remembered how Nastia flinched when Erebus shook her hand.

“Wait! My lord! Stop!” Theocritus cried. “I have even more reason to believe he will be successful now. I found a potent new source to power his dreams. An _incaensor_ with a _potentia_ just shy of one-thousand.” Avira’s stomach dropped. She tucked herself back against the doorframe, hoping to stay out of sight.

A slave tried to help Nastia with her hand. She slapped him across the face. Erebus wiped the wine and glass off his hand into his napkin. “Show me.”

Order took her by the shoulders and escorted her into the room, positioning her behind the head of the table. All the magisters looked up, murmuring amongst themselves. Avira tried not to look as mortified as she felt. Being this vulnerable in front of them all felt rather like being a beast up for slaughter.

Erebus stood, pushing in his chair. He crossed his arms and circled her leeringly. “Quite a specimen, isn’t she? What do you call her?”

“I have not given her a name,” Theocritus responded. “She is not one of mine. She resides in the pits with the others for the cause.”

Erebus took the knife off his plate, grabbing her by the wrist. “Almost a shame her blood is of such value. She brings to mind many other uses.” The room laughed.

He met her eyes, slicing a line from her elbow down to her hand. She tried to look away. “No. Look at me,” he insisted. He scraped the blood to the end of her arm with the backside of the knife, swirling two fingers in it and bringing them close to his face.

He inhaled, eyes rolling back, rubbing his fingers with his thumb. “Oh, how it must feel to have _this_ running through your veins.”

It made Avira’s skin crawl. She fought the impulse to pull away, offering him a strained smile as she felt warmth streaming down her arm and dripping off her fingers onto the marble.

Erebus traded his knife for his staff, positioning the tip in the puddle on the floor. He watched intently as his staff took in the blood. She was starting to feel faint from the loss, growing weaker as his staff grew brighter.

He looked around the hall, then pointed it at one of the _servani_. She gasped, clutching her chest, then collapsed to the ground, the platter she was carrying shattering.

Vita rushed to her side, rolled her over, then pressed two fingers to her neck. Nastia hurried over as well, as it appeared to be one of her slaves. Vita pressed her eyes shut at the stillness she felt, shaking her head. Nastia covered her mouth as Vita and the others removed the body.

Erebus barked a laugh, admiring his staff. “Theocritus, this blood is exemplary. You have done well.” He moved for Avira. Her eyes brimmed with tears at such senseless loss of life, spelled in her blood, no less.

He grazed his fingers along her collarbone and turned her chin to face him. “What is it, pet?” he murmured. “Did I damage your pretty skin?”

He pulled her in closer, forcing his hand under her tunic and sliding it down her arm. She squirmed. Healing magic poured in, far more powerful than her own. What filth. He must have thought himself quite benevolent for showing her this kind of favor.

“There you are. Good as new,” he cooed, stroking her hair.

She stood with bated breath until his attention turned back to the magisters, then retreated back to the corner of the room, rather hoping they were done with her for the evening.

“I believe this calls for a toast,” Erebus declared, holding out his hand for a new glass of wine. Vita quickly obliged.  
  
He raised his glass, the rest of the room following suit. “To the Night.”

“May darkness reign,” they responded before drinking.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the meal was marred by an intractable tension. Erebus asked questions of the magisters, and they replied as sparsely as possible. Nastia struggled to not make her displeasure known, and Feynriel seemed to want to disappear almost as badly as Avira did.

It reminded her of the Grand Game: despite the lavish ambience and the abundant pleasantries, it would take but the spark of one wrong word or gesture for it all to erupt into violence. But unlike Halamshiral, where Avira had held power of her own, she was but a pawn in this game. When the time was right, Theocritus would gladly sacrifice her for his own gains.

From what Avira gathered, Theocritus seemed to be leading this faction of magisters, all of whom whom were beholden to this Erebus. But what was the end game?

It seemed safe to assume that all Theocritus cared about was power. After all, the term Dorian had called him, _Laetan_ , meant he was a second-class mage in Tevinter society. Unlike an _Altus_ , who could trace their magical lineage back to the Dreamers that communicated with the Old Gods in the Fade, Laetans had no such claim to power by blood, so they were constantly vying to prove themselves over the Altus. And if harvesting the blood of countless slaves was his path to power, he seemed to have no qualms about that.

Erebus’ motivations were a bit more uncertain. Whoever he was, he had inside information about the Black Divine, and despite being an elf, had the respect and the fear of a host of magisters. Though he clearly had answers, she suspected he would not part from them easily.

At least the evening seemed to be winding down. The magisters began to file out, Order directing them to their assigned quarters. Before Avira she could even begin to hope that the _servani_ would be dismissed, Nastia summoned them all to line up at the front of the room.

Avira went to join them, but Nastia grabbed her by her arm. “Not you, pit slave. You haven’t the training to be a proper _famulus._ ”

Vita stayed put by Theocritus’ side. He whispered something in her ear, and after a look of sheer betrayal, she reluctantly joined the others.  
  
“Bow,” Nastia commanded. They all got on their knees.

“My lord, allow me to grant you the utmost of our hospitality,” Theocritus offered, gesturing towards his slaves. “I do tend to keep the finest _servani_ for myself, after all,” he chuckled, “but for the remainder of your stay, you may have your pick. They are all at your disposal.”

Avira clenched her fist. Many of those he kept as house slaves were far too young to be offered up like chattel.

Erebus seemed rather indifferent towards the prospect, walking past them all. “This does not interest me.” He turned back to Theocritus, shaking his head. “The _incaensor_. Have her brought to my quarters.” Avira’s body tensed at the thought of being left alone with him.

“That will be all for tonight. You may show me the progress in the reserves tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

He was kneeling in the center of the room when she entered.

“Sit,” he said, without turning around. He patted the ground in front of him. She complied, trying to slow her rapid breaths.

He pulled out a key of some sort, carefully avoiding touching its teeth. He lifted her hair away from her neck, inserting the key into the lyrium collar.

“In another world, you would not have been a slave, you know.”

She did not reply.

“The rest of them might have, but with power such as yours? No. You would have rivalled the gods themselves.”

The tumblers clicked as he maneuvered each one, until the collar finally fell to the ground. Avira winced at the burns it left, her clammy fingers subconsciously going to her neck. He met her hand there, cool healing magic dulling the sting.

His kindness concerned her more than any measure of cruelty.

He guided her to stand with two fingers under her chin, then moved to look her in the eyes. “You may speak freely with me, you know.” After a moment, he asked, “They did not take your tongue and make you _tacitum_ , did they?”

She shook her head. “No, _domine_ ,” she stuttered. “I can speak if it pleases you.” _She figured it was better to say as little as she could get away with._

He gestured to the collar on the floor. “They are afraid of your power. That is why they shackle you.”  
  
“Are you not?” she asked.

The corners of his lips upturned.

He stepped behind her again, pressing himself flush against her as he unfastened her belt. If she bit down on her inner cheek any harder, it would bleed. She could not think of any way out of this. The memory of the knife peeling away her skin was still too fresh for her to be fool enough to run, and she would never forgive herself if her actions condemned the rest of the slaves to death.

Besides, she still needed answers. She decided to ask him some questions to keep her mind off what was to come. “Rivaled the gods, you said? So you do not believe in the Maker?”  
  
Erebus pursed his lips. “If there truly is a Maker, to whom do you think he is beholden?”

He unhooked her top, unwinding the draped fabric as he spoke. “Personally, I see no use in worshiping a god whose power does not benefit me.”

“And whose power benefits the elves?”

“I did not say ‘the elves’,” he corrected.

He crossed in front of her, undoing the buttons that held the garment together at the waist. He pulled it apart, easing it off her right shoulder, then her left.

His eyes stopped at her missing arm: widening, but not with what appeared to be shock over its absence. He grabbed it, holding it up to examine the pale scars branching up her skin. “How did this happen?” he breathed. “How did you lose your arm?”

Her chest tightened, heart pounding in her ears. She did not answer. She could not answer.

He gripped her by both shoulders, voice almost a snarl. “Tell me. Everything.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TEVENE  
> Famulus = a house slave. Even among the slave class, there is a rigid system of hierarchy: Liberati (a subclass of freed slaves with limited rights), Praelia (those indentured to fight in the proving grounds), Famuli (house slaves), Servus Publicus (government-owned slaves), Corpori (slave laborers), then the Obliti (lit. ‘the forgotten’, black market slaves).  
> Tacitum = a slave who has had their tongue removed. While it is sometimes done as punishment for speaking out of turn, it is more often because the slave knows too many of their master’s secrets.
> 
> ELVHEN  
> Allini = the guest


End file.
